


Cycles

by wretcheddyke



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Mating Cycles/In Heat, but not really, it started as crack and here we are being soft, not a/b/o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wretcheddyke/pseuds/wretcheddyke
Summary: Yaz freezes. The pale hands across her belly hold tight as a chin lands on her shoulder, a bit boney but not uncomfortable. She does a slow turn to her right, half expecting the Doctor to be possessed with an alien squid on her back, but is only met with adoring pupils taking in the view.Yaz and the Doctor are stuck in a pattern - what happens when the Timelord's own biology goes against her despite her stubbornness?
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 119





	Cycles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clowncartardis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowncartardis/gifts).



Lingering eyes on lips leave a swell of desperation nestled under ribs.

“I’m very old, Yaz,” she whispers, letting her hands drop from where they once rested on Yaz’s hips. “I’m old and I’m dangerous and I can’t keep you safe. I’ve lost so many people.”

Her hazel eyes are filled with a distant longing, muted with defeat. Yaz pulls away. She’s always been brave but capturing the Doctor’s lips in a spontaneous kiss is probably the boldest thing she’s ever done. The sparks the Doctor prohibited from igniting still fizz on her skin. A sigh escapes her mouth as she attempts to rid herself of the irritation climbing her throat. She cups the Doctor’s cheek; skin so smooth and fresh, age seems like a myth.

“I know,” she smiles despite her frustrations. They’ve been here before, at the peak of their desire, where their masks come off and they can’t help but reach for one another. It happens, sometimes, after long adventures filled with heightened adrenaline and the threat of losing each other. Or after the rush of a successful mission demonstrates their compatibility. Or during quiet nights aboard the TARDIS when the feeling of home permeates and the thought of confession feels less daunting under soft amber lights. Usually, the Doctor pulls away before it can get to this point. But slowly, Yaz is chipping away at the wall of Azbantium that surrounds her heart. The disappointment is crushing, of course, but she’s felt it in so many forms—a pat on the back of her hand as the Doctor abruptly cuts a conversation short, an offering of custard creams instead of reciprocation, a solemn look that signifies regret and apology—it’s lasting sting gets shorter each time.

The Doctor dips her head to avoid Yaz’s gaze and fiddles with the zip on Yaz’s jacket. As often as she does it, she’s no good a rejecting Yasmin Khan.

“Look at me, Doctor,” Yaz commands, gentle but firm. “I know. I know y’can’t keep me safe, I know it’s dangerous. But loss isn’t something you can live in fear of. Not without living a life with nothing of value. You’ve got so much to give,” she holds her face like a child, “but if you don’t let people help you back there’s gonna be no one left.”

Her eyebrows are pinched in protest, ready to argue back, but no words form in her mouth.

“Ryan and Graham are leaving soon. I’m not gonna be here forever. It doesn’t have to be me,” she says, despite every nerve in her body hoping it will be, “but you need to let people in. Let people help you before you’re alone.” The distraught look on her face breaks Yaz’s heart. How to help someone so deathly afraid of the very thing she needs? “You’re no good alone.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and lets go completely. When she looks up again, her face is set. Cold and firm. Back to being the Doctor. “I can’t. I won’t.”

Rejection should feel like a dagger or a sonic mine or a Dalek gunshot. But they’ve been here before. She can’t help the flash of amusement that crosses her face - she just about holds back the eye roll. As easily as the mask slips back on, they both know what lays beneath - it spilt from the Doctor’s eyes, that buried deep, forbidden want. Yaz will wait patiently, until the next time the mask slips, to punch at diamond rock until she finally breaks through. A few more trips, a couple more adventures under their belts, and the Doctor will be swayed back to comfortability. She’ll be lulled by their easy silences and playful flirting and, like a stray cat slinking over human perimeters for fresh food, she’ll show her true face again. Yaz is ok with that. Exhausted and irritated and amused at her stubborn petulance - but ok.

She takes one last glance at the Doctor’s lips, testing the waters to see if she—her honest, vulnerable Doctor—is still there. But the walls are firmly back in place.

“It’s okay,” she smiles and strokes her cheek before pulling away herself. “I’m gonna sleep. Busy day tomorrow, right?”

“Oh yeah, busy busy day.” She smiles and rocks back on her feet as if they weren’t just two different people. “Bring wellies! The planet Pluviam is under constant rainfall. Literally never stops raining. And a coat—Maybe an umbrella! Probably best to just expect to get wet.”

Yaz raises her eyebrows and waits for the innuendo to register. She doesn’t need to verbalise her dig, the cocked eyebrow that says ‘ _given up on expecting that a while ago’_ does it for her. The Doctor seems to malfunction for a second, contorting her face and spluttering for a moment.

“Oh, I didn’t—That came out different, I—”

Yaz rescues her with a muted laugh and a shake of her head. “Night, Doctor.”

“Um, yeah. Night, Yaz.”

* * *

“Morning fam!” The Doctor looks her perfect, mad self with her welding goggles on her head and a smudge of engine oil across her cheek.

“Alright, Doc,” Graham raises his tea in cheers.

She yanks the goggles off and chucks them haphazardly to the side. “Sleep well? Oo, nice cuppa. That’s exactly what I need.”

Yaz had slept with a restlessness that seemed to infect her dreams. She’d been in and out of consciousness all night, intrusive visions of three-fingered aliens with skull-ish faces interrupting peaceful slumber. She feels unpleasantly warm and groggy, her pyjama shirt suddenly too sleep-riddled to be comfortable in the light of day.

The Doctor skirts past her to reach for the kettle and Yaz gives her a sleepy smile. “You’ve got oil on your face. C’mere,” Yaz says, voice still scratchy.

She’d anticipated the Doctor being a little awkward around her today. Expected her to be hasty and scattered as she attempts to put as much distance between them as possible - the usual dip in their now established cycle. Wiping the oil from her face with the pad of her thumb was always going to be a risky move. Even at the best of times, these little moments of intimacy were built up to slowly and reserved for when they were alone. But Yaz is groggy and, frankly, at the end of her tether when it comes to being careful. So, she cups her chin with her index and wipes away the brown smudge and the Doctor freezes.

The Doctor, as a general rule, doesn’t freeze. She’s fidgety and hyperactive, flitting from place to place like a dying bluebottle. But Yaz’s thumb, firm on her cheek, works like Venusian Aikido. She looks slightly alarmed and she goes very red and her eyes lock onto Yaz’s pyjama shirt.

“You alright, Doctor?” Yaz asks with a frown as she releases her grip.

“Yeah,” she coughs. “Yeah fine. Great, even! Is that new shampoo? You smell really, really…” She drifts off, eyes roaming over Yaz’s neck and hair and face until they meet her eyes and she’s snapped back to reality, “I mean—It’s a smell. It’s a fine one—a nice one.”

Yaz locks eyes with Ryan across the room who looks just as perplexed as Yaz feels.

“Okay. Nope—Usual shampoo,” she says, bemused. “I’m actually gonna go take a shower. You should drink that tea, sounds like y’need it.”

The Doctor barely acknowledges the tease, just nods dumbly and watches her leave.

When Ryan shoots her another quizzical look on her way past, she mutters a quiet, “I have no idea.”

* * *

The shower strips her of her muddy morning stupor. Feeling oddly empowered by the Doctor’s flushed cheeks and apparent lingering gaze, she dresses in a navy co-ord, dotted with white tulips, that hugs her ass and makes her legs look a tiny bit longer than usual. She thinks about doing a red lip to compliment it but changes her mind when she remembers the days’ plan. It’s a harmful pattern she gets into occasionally, dressing up for the woman she knows she can’t have, but there's a freedom in the predictability. You don’t fear rejection when it’s inevitable.

Stepping back into the console room, she’s surprised to be welcomed by a warm call of her name.

“Yaz! There you are - you took ages! Ready for Pluviam?” She chucks an umbrella in her general direction and it clatters on the floor about two feet away. “I’m dead excited.” She yanks the closest lever and the TARDIS rumbles to life beneath their feet.

“Warning next time!” Graham calls out as he just manages to grab a handrail before tumbling.

“What exactly is on this planet?” Ryan asks over the ships turbulence.

“It’s populated by an ancient race of water people, they can tell you your future if you drink from Lake Vienne”—she rambles as she twirls about the controls—“which they are technically born from so it’s a bit weird. Also, a bit wishy-washy when it comes to the facts. Last I went they said I’d end up ‘shrunken from my departed self’. No clue what that means but it were a right laugh.”

Rounding the console, she comes face to face with Yaz and leans across to flick a few switches. It’s usually wise to get out her way when she’s in-flight but the way hazel eyes take in her outfit—ignoring the switches entirely—forces Yaz to hold her ground.

“Shrunken like shorter? After regenerating into a new self, maybe? Not quite six foot anymore, are you?”

Her wide smile falls when she comprehends what Yaz just said, eyebrows coming together in bewilderment before: “Oh! Of course! Yasmin Khan, have I ever told you how brilliant you are?”

The compliment takes her so off guard she can barely enjoy her smug satisfaction and she stutters when the Doctor looks at her like she really wants an answer. “I… clearly not often enough,” she recovers.

“Well, I won’t make that mistake twice,” she grins, wide and unfettered and they hold one another's gaze for a long moment until the TARDIS settling with a shudder knocks them out of it. “C’mon then!” She calls, abruptly spinning on her feet and grabbing Yaz’s hand.

The doors swing open and on their way out Ryan mutters a tormenting “won’t make that mistake again,” into Yaz’s ear.

“Shut up,” she scolds but she can’t help the grin that threatens her face. It must mean something if even Ryan’s noticing how odd she’s being.

“I thought it were supposed to be raining?” Yaz asks when dry desert sand fills her boots. _Wedges on sand. Brilliant._

“Right. Might’ve overshot a bit by a few thousand miles.” The Doctor scrunches her face at the horizon and suddenly disappears back within the TARDIS.

Despite its unexpected appearance, the view is astonishing. They’re on the brink of a grand canyon. Miles wide with an ungodly depth - Yaz can just make out the sandy beach that lives at the bottom. The cliff faces are made of sparkling crystal, swathes of glittering geodes against the rough sandy edges. They catch the light of the twin suns, dancing across the canyon, alarmingly garish. It’s like being shrunken and placed atop a quartz: amethyst, citrine and cairngorm. The whole thing is so big, it steals the breath from their lungs as agoraphobia takes its hold.

“Jesus…” Ryan mutters as he takes in the view.

“That’s…”

“Big,” Graham finishes Yaz’s sentence for her.

“I were gonna say impressive. But yeah, big works.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Doctor snakes her arms around Yaz’s waist as she comes up behind her.

Yaz freezes. The pale hands across her belly hold tight as a chin lands on her shoulder, a bit boney but not uncomfortable. She does a slow turn to her right, half expecting the Doctor to be possessed with an alien squid on her back, but is met with adoring pupils taking in the view.

“No matter how long I travel, I’ll never not be astounded by a view like that.”

“You alright, Doc?” Graham asks when he notices their entwined bodies, pulling his Audrey Hepburn sunglasses down his nose to make sure it isn’t a trick of the light.

“I’m more than alright, Graham. You humans love crystals to bring you luck and good fortune - got to mean something I landed here accidentally. With my fam.” She nods assuredly and gives Yaz a squeeze and, if she’s not mistaken, sniffs her hair.

“I—Since when did you believe in fate?” Yaz asks in bemusement. “And hugs?” She asks before she really thinks it through and then waits with dread for the Doctor to pull away. But when she looks around the Doctor is still very much invested in the view.

“Sometimes, Yaz, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to see the messages the universe gives.” There's a wistful tone to her voice despite the smile on her face, completely at odds with her usual self.

Yaz looks at her earnest expression and gives a ruffled tut at her condescension. “Alright, Yoda. I think we’ve all experienced a bit of spirituality from a nice view. Are we explorin’ the big hole in the ground or not?”

“Oo, brilliant,” the Doctor lights up. She scratches at Yaz’s belly—sending a shudder down her spine—as a send-off before pulling her hands away. “C’mon! I can see a path this way.” With the sudden loss of contact, Yaz is left feeling as if the whole thing was a vivid delusion brought about by the shimmering crystals.

The trek to a manageable decline is quiet. Nobody daring to interrupt the communal awe they’re all experiencing. Eventually, Yaz falls behind to stick with Ryan over the rough terrain.

“Watch that one,” she says, gesturing to a wonky rock underfoot.

“Yeah, thanks. Y’gonna tell me what’s goin’ on with the Doctor?”

“I honestly don’t know mate.”

“C’mon. I know you were up late with her last night. Y’telling me nothing happened? ‘Cause she’s acting proper weird today.”

“What you trying to imply, Ryan?” It’s cruel, really, to act as if the signs aren’t there. That he’s making stuff up without cause. But if she doesn’t make things public, if nobody knows about their back and forth—the way she sways from friend to almost-lover to simple companion—maybe she won’t be embarrassed by it.

“Yaz, mate, I’m not gonna judge you for shagging an alien.”

“Ryan!” She scolds with a gentle shove.

“Aye! You can’t do that while I’m walking.”

“You two fightin’ back there? Always runnin’ a muck, I’m telling ya.”

“Sorry,” she quickly apologises as he regains his step. “Look, it’s not like that. Don’t think she’ll ever let me get that close.” She scuffs her toe over the dusty rock.

“So you’ve tried?” He grins like he’s just tricked a secret out of her.

“Shut up,” she scolds again.

“Look, whatever you did seems to have worked. Can’t just be the sexy co-ord that’s got her all over you. It’s nice but it’s not that nice, Yaz.” He’s laughing before he’s even finished talking when Yaz shoots him a lethal glare. _So much for subtlety._

“Fam!” The Doctor breaks up their little communion. “Look at this!”

When the pair catch up, the Doctor is standing over a rather precarious route down the cliffside. Steps haphazardly carved into the rock from other lost explorers.

“S’ppose it’s not ladders,” Ryan says.

“We don’t have to—“

“Yaz, it’s a huge diamond hole in the ground. I definitely have to.”

“Biggest hole I’ve ever seen,” the Doctor announces with her hands on her hips and no sense of humour whatsoever. “What?” She asks when Yaz and Ryan shoot her distasteful looks.

“Right then. Descent into the abyss - who wants to go first?”

* * *

The climb down takes at least half an hour and the longer it takes the more Yaz dreads the inevitable return journey. “Are you sure this were a good idea?” She calls down behind her to the Doctor.

“It’s just a couple more steps, Yaz, I promise. See—”

Yaz hears her splash into a stream she can’t yet see. “Are you in water? How deep is it?”

“It’s fine, I’ll catch you!”

“Doctor, I don’t need y’to catch me. I just wanna know how wet I’m about to be.”

Silence.

“Doctor?”

“What?”

“Oh my god,” she mutters. Giving up on getting any advice, Yaz holds her breath and pushes herself backwards off the rock. She’s greeted with icy water up to her knees and she gasps when she sees how clear it is. The crystal doesn’t stop and covers the floor, lighting up the river with refracted pink, yellow and blue. Her shoes might be ruined, but she’s far too in awe to care.

Crystal turns to glittering sand as they make their way through the water to a clearing. Silky white sand is scattered with peculiar rock formations. The mood is reflective as they walk in silence, the sight too beautiful to be interrupted by talk. The Doctor’s hand swings painfully close to Yaz’s.

Leaving Graham and Ryan on an opaque lump of peridot to rest their tired legs, Yaz and the Doctor wander down the water’s edge. The mouth of the canyon casts a circular shadow across the beach, it’s like standing under a massive spotlight.

“How come there’s waves if it’s a lagoon?” Yaz asks, sand tickling between her toes. Her wet shoes swing in the Doctor’s hand, having been quickly scooped up with an _‘I’ll carry them!’_

“Same reason as on Earth. Gravity. Yours comes from the moon and sun when the gravitational pull shifts the water in tide cycles. Can’t have two suns and no tide.” She slips her free hand into Yaz’s, linking their fingers and her eyes flick over Yaz’s body for a second. “It’s all about attraction.”

“What has gotten into you today?” Yaz looks down at their entwined fingers, digit over digit, it looks like an optical illusion.

“What d’you mean?”

“You just”—the Doctor suddenly pulls away to rip off her coat. She lays it neatly on the sand and plonks herself on top—“you’re just a bit… not yourself.” Yaz tries her best not to criticise the affection she seems so willing to dole out.

“I’m fine! No idea what you’re talking about. Let’s sunbathe! I never get to sunbathe.”

Yaz takes a spot next to her and lays back - her muscles sigh with relief as she does so.

“Did you know planets with two suns outnumber planets with one? By a long margin and all - you humans are very rare,” she rambles as she watches the sky and Yaz likes the way the suns warm her skin. All of a sudden, the Doctor twists up on an elbow and beholds Yaz with gooey eyes. “I’m so glad I met you, Yaz.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m more than okay. I’m ace.” She drops her head to Yaz’s shoulder and curls her arm across her waist. It’s like being cornered by a feared house cat. Yaz has been chosen to endure the soft weight of her as she claims purchase across her body. She dare not move as claws scratch at her hip, lest she’s faced with a wounding bite—or worse, send her scarpering.

They lay there for a long time, the only sounds being the gentle waves and the Doctor’s nose snuggling into her shoulder. Yaz lets her hands rest at her sides, not totally understanding what she should be doing with them. Or with her.

“You’re so soft. Humans are always so soft… and warm.” The Doctor’s hand slides across her stomach, grabbing at the soft flesh beneath her clothes. She starts rubbing at the contours of her ribs, back and forth, as if encouraging her to roll over and face her. It drives Yaz insane. The Doctor has never touched her like this before, with the implication of something more, something carnal, beneath the surface. She dares to look into the Doctor’s eyes and is breathless to find them dark; pupils blown wide like black ink dripped into gold.

The Doctor squeezes at her side—fingers nestled between ribs, her thumb pressing gently into the underside of her breast—a sure sign of encouragement in a certain direction.

“You’re so strong,” she frowns. Yaz mistakes this for meaning physically, the way her wandering hands feel at her obliques but then she says, “you always stand by what you believe in.”

She should think about that more—the Doctor paying her such a thoughtful compliment—but cold fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt changes things. Her palm isn’t as cold as she half expected it to be when it lands firmly on her ribs. Her thumb skims along the bottom of her bra.

“I think Ryan and Graham would prefer if my shirt stayed on,” she says but her breath catches and it comes out quiet instead of cocky.

“It’s admirable. You’re admirable, Yaz,” she whispers, ignoring Yaz completely. She stares at her for a long time, taking in Yaz’s face like she’s trying to memorise it.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Yaz leaps away when she hears Ryan’s voice approaching and then his shadow is blocking out a sun. He stands over them with a smug grin on his face.

“No,” Yaz frowns at him as she sits up.

If the Doctor shares at all in her embarrassment, she doesn’t show it. She sits in sync with Yaz, wrapping an arm around her waist, her chin relocating to a shoulder. Yaz gives her a wary look and then shoots Ryan a preemptive warning look that tells him not to comment on her bizarre behaviour.

“Well c’mon then. Graham wants the little boy’s room and refuses to go in the lagoon.”

The Doctor hops to her feet, quick as a flash, and gives Yaz a hand up. “Good thinking, Graham. Never know what’ll off-set the natural balance of things!”

“Can say that again,” Ryan taunts under his breath as the Doctor drags Yaz past by their interlocked hands.

* * *

The scale back up the cliffside is made slightly more difficult by the Doctor’s incessant hands.

“Doctor, it’s basically just steps. I don’t need a shift up,” Yaz scolds whenever a palm reaches for the soft curve of her backside to push her gently upwards.

“Anything to help, Yaz,” is the Doctor’s response.

She can hear Ryan sniggering ahead of her. “Focus on your step, Ryan,” she jabs.

“Y’better not be ogling me like she is you,” he shoots back.

“Ew, shut up.”

“What?!” The Doctor calls up from the back of the group.

“Nothing!” They call back in unison.

“Can I just say,” she starts, “I love exploring places like this with you lot. I’m so glad I didn’t die on Gallifrey.”

Yaz almost chokes when her near-death experience gets such a blasé reference. The Doctor is yet to discuss the events that took place that day and the years of imprisonment that followed and Yaz has never dared press.

“I mean, prison were bad—like, really, worst time of my life and that’s saying something because I were tortured for four billion years once—but definitely worth it for a day like this. Maybe we should go swimming later. Are you lot hungry? I’m starvin.”

“Christ, you’re giving me whiplash here, Doc. You really are,” Graham chimes from the front of the line. He’s not the only one: Yaz tries to focus on her step as the Doctor’s words form ruinous images in her mind. Images of the Doctor, cold and tired and broken. All conflicted by her blithe tone.

Upon summiting, the Doctor is just as breathless as Graham is. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and a sheen of sweat covers her forehead.

“You alright, Doc? You look as worn out as I feel,” Graham asks.

“Oh yeah! Fine. Nothing like a good climb to get the hearts pumping,” she breathes. “Back to the TARDIS?”

“We don’t have to leave yet, do we? We could sit out, watch the suns go down?”

“Make it like a camping trip - good idea, Yaz! You always have the best ideas,” she tugs on her waist and plants a firm kiss on her cheek before opening the TARDIS door and disappearing inside leaving an awestruck Yaz, Ryan and Graham.

“Okay… I think there’s something really, really wrong with the Doctor.”

“You’re telling me! What the hell was that?” Graham asks, pulling off Pythagoras’s sunglasses to look between Yaz and open TARDIS door.

Before any theorising can begin, she’s coming back out with a stack of four deck chairs balanced in her arms, sweat dripping from her forehead.

“Bit hot out here, innit?” She complains, putting the chairs down and ripping off her coat again. “Are you guys hot? I’m boiling.”

“Um, Doctor,” Yaz starts tentatively, “d’you think you might be sick? Feverish?”

“Delirious?”

“Ryan—“

“Nah, I don’t get sick,” she says, unstacking the chairs and taking a seat. “Stellar immune system, me. Do you like barbecues?”

“Um, not really,” Yaz comments, trying to keep up with another quick topic change. “Tends to be a lot of meat.”

“Oh, yeah. Me too. Hate them, in fact. Rubbish things, barbecues.” She shuffles her deck chair a few inches to the right so it pushes up against Yaz’s. “Oh! I could get the mobile mixology stand - you like cocktails, right?”

“Um, sure…” Yaz’s response is pretty much irrelevant because she’s already bolting back inside.

The events that follow are somehow both endearing and infuriating. Under the setting suns, the Doctor attempts to mix a cosmopolitan over a cocktail trolly made up of fifty per cent spirits and fifty per cent chemical solutions.

“Now, I think this is cranberry juice. Could be cobalt chloride.” She gives it a sniff with her back to the view, totally engrossed in her task, as the first sun dips behind the horizon.

When the top of the shaker propels itself off the cliffside—Yaz can’t blame its’ desire for escape from this elaborate performance—they all hold their breath in silence to hear it clatter down crystal walls. “Whoops,” the Doctor cringes as she hears the gentle splash of it landing. “Not to worry! Ta-da!” She fills a single cocktail class with the luminous pink liquid, pulls out a dusty mini umbrella to pop in the side, and hands it over to Yaz as if it was a regal gift.

“What, all that and there’s not even enough for us all?” Graham opposes.

“Oh. Well, I can make more,” the Doctor sheepishly eyes the path her lid just flew.

“Please, no,” Ryan sighs, running his hand over his head.

“Doctor, just come and sit down. Relax. Enjoy the v—Oh, that’s… not exactly what I had in mind but okay.”

Without hesitation, the Doctor walks right up to Yaz and sits down on her lap, swinging her legs over the armrest and curling an elbow around the back of her neck. The sky is set alight with crimson where the first sun bleeds and dies ahead of its sibling.

“Do you like it? I can make a Piña colada if you don’t. Or sex on the beach. Whatever you want.”

Yaz shuts her eyes and hopes Graham’s presence stops Ryan’s inevitable comment about their handsy moment back on the sand. She takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised by the sweet taste - better than any cosmo she’s had back in Sheffield.

“That’s actually delicious - thank you, Doctor,” she praises, still eyeing her suspiciously. Her pupils are still wide and the sweat on her face is causing her hair to curl. She seems happy with Yaz’s approval and plants a forehead, sticky with sweat, on Yaz’s neck.

Yaz can feel all eyes on her: the Doctor’s adoring and droopy, Ryan and Graham’s baffled and slightly disturbed. When the Doctor begins tracing the exposed skin of her clavicle with gentle fingertips, it causes goosebumps to scatter across her skin and she shifts uncomfortably under her weight.

“You’re all so important to me. Tiny lives having such big impacts all across the universe - you’re all so remarkable.”

“Um, thanks, Doc,” Graham says.

“Y’know, after Bill I thought I were done with friends and family. But you’ve all shown me, no matter what happens, love abides,” she says firmly, eyes boring into the side of Yaz’s face.

“Y’think it’s something she ate?” Ryan suddenly pipes up, leaning forward on his chair to observe her peculiar state.

“Ryan, leave her be.” Yaz isn’t sure why she’s defending her, this clearly isn’t right, but some part of her is enjoying the fantasy she could’ve simply had a change of heart. Her emotional honesty is making Yaz oddly protective over her.

“Yaz, c’mon. She’s clearly not right,” he gestures to her form, plonked upon Yaz’s lap like a Labradoodle that thinks it’s a Chihuahua.

Far too engrossed in Yaz to notice their discussions on her sanity, the Doctor murmurs in her ear, far too loud not to be heard by the rest of the group. “Your skin is so soft,” she breathes, her fingers following the hem at her cleavage, “I just wanna touch all of it.”

Yaz’s eyes dart about and she grabs the intrusive hand before it can stray any further down, holding it firmly in her lap. “Um—”

“I never get tired of being around you,” she sighs into Yaz’s ear, her lips pressing up against the shell. It takes everything Yaz has got not to make a pathetic noise when warm breath sends a shudder down her body. When blunt teeth suddenly nip at her earlobe, drawing the flesh into the Doctors mouth, a warm tongue swipes itself across cartilage. Yaz gasps and pulls away, coming face to face with the Doctor’s fixated expression.

“Did you just _lick_ my ear?”

“Right!” Graham suddenly starts. “Don’t know about you lot but I’m knackered. Son?”

“Err, yeah. Me too. Proper knackered. Think I’m gonna go sleep.”

Yaz considers protesting their departure. She wants to convey, to some extent, she isn’t a part of this mortifying display of public affection but then, she supposes, she is. The best she can muster is an apologetic shrug and a flapping jaw. She tries to ignore Ryan’s slow head-shake at their egregious PDA. It’s a look that says: _‘Right in front of Graham, too. Shameful, Yaz.’_

As soon as the TARDIS doors creak shut behind her she is left with nothing but the dying sun and a crazed woman in her lap. The Doctor twists a little, both arms coming to rest around Yaz’s neck as if she were the most valuable necklace she’d ever own, eyes wide and a dumb smile plaguing her lips.

“There’s something very wrong with you,” Yaz frowns.

“I’m fine,” she protests, hot breath ghosting Yaz’s lips as she nudges their noses together. “Just a bit hot is all.”

The effort it takes not to surge forward and capture those pink lips in a kiss is herculean.

“You’re acting really weird,” Yaz says. Her voice is quiet and she has to suppress a squeak when she sees the Doctor press her thighs together. The want that starts to simmer is hot in her gut.

“It’s not weird for me to wanna have sex with you,” the Doctor says, plain as day. “You’re one of the best people I know and you’re always lookin’ out for me, even when I don’t deserve it. And you have just, the best eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like whole universes, deep and dark and filled with life and stars,” she rambles.

Yaz’s mouth hangs open in astonishment for a moment as the words she’d not had the guts to even fantasise about spill from the Doctor’s mouth as she squirms in her lap.

“Wait, wait,” she interrupts, “this can’t just be about last night. What is going on? What’s happened?” She tries her best to clear the inky cloud of desire that shrouds her prefrontal cortex.

“I dunno. I think it’s the outfit,” the Doctor sighs a little laugh and moves her hands around Yaz, examining her low-cut top and pushing her breasts together slightly. “You just look… amazin’ - and the way you kissed me yesterday… I can’t stop thinking about your mouth. It were so soft and warm. Softest mouth I’ve ever kissed.” She stares at Yaz’s mouth like a dog stares at its owner’s plate: pathetically expectant.

It would be so easy, just inch a bit closer, relax the strain pulling her head back, and she could be kissing her. Properly kissing her and feeling her tongue and gripping her hips. It would be simple. Perfect, surrounded by the oncoming night. “Have you gone bananas?”

“I promise I’ve never felt more sane,” she gleams and Yaz pushes her hand against her forehead.

“You feel feverish.”

“You make me feel very hot,” she breathes and lets her eyes wander unashamedly over Yaz’s chest.

“Was that a pick-up line? You’ve definitely lost it.” She can’t help but laugh, even if her frown deepens. “C’mon, let's go in. See if the TARDIS can figure out what’s gotten into you.”

Her eyes snap up and there’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes and she’s chuckling at the unintended euphemism.

“Oh my god, seriously? _Now_ y’getting dirty innuendos?” It’s odd to the have the tables turned and Yaz be the one blushing.

The Doctor smiles as she offers a hand to pull Yaz from her chair. She keeps much the same etiquette as she skirts past to open the TARDIS doors, holding them open in a display of chivalry. She rocks on her feet, buzzing with energy as Yaz passes and then emphatically shuts it to skip beside her. The only way Yaz can possibly describe it is that the Doctor—the oncoming storm, the timeless child, the bringer of darkness—is on her best behaviour.

“Where to then? Anywhere in all of time and space—all yours,” she beams. “Unless y’tired. I could run you a bath? I’ve probably got loads.”

“Run me a bath?? TARDIS—Um…” She looks up awkwardly at the central crystal, not quite comfortable talking with potentially inanimate machines. “Can y’tell me what’s wrong with her please?”

“Yaz, I promise I’m fine. I—“

She’s interrupted by the vapour screens flashing an alarming message: _core body temperature 39.4°C._

“Aren’t you supposed to run cold?” Yaz asks.

“It’s probably fine,” she responds, wiping a sticky strand of hair out her face. “Now c’mon, what is it? Ballroom dancing on Shirazalon? Dinner overlooking the peaks of Mount Allapas?” She twists and turns around the console, flicking various switches before coming to a halt before Yaz, breath ragged. “Couples massage on Massua?”

“Doctor I think _you_ need a bath. And ice one.”

“Oh, brilliant idea!” She beams, mouth almost salivating, Yaz is sure, at the thought of cool relief. She grabs Yaz’s hand, slotting their fingers together and pulling her towards the corridor.

The bath is already running when she’s pulled through the third door on the right. It’s sat centre stage, free-standing with golden feet, crowned by bronze crowd shyness arches. It’s regal in its standing - pompous, even. The Doctor, on the other hand, hops on one leg as she pulls off a boot. It lands on white tile, leaving a mess of muddy sand.

“Um!” Yaz interrupts her undressing when she yanks two tops up over her head. “I’ll er, leave you to it then.”

“No! No, no, stay?” The Doctor looks panicked by her near departure, coming up to take both her hands. Yaz tries to look at anything but the milky skin scattered with rich birthmarks and the way her blue trousers wrap so snug around her waist. “Will you stay?” Her eyes are wide and pleading, eyebrows creasing together and her lip jutting out. Yaz has never seen anything so plainly cute.

“Okay.” It slips out quiet and thoughtless. 

The Doctor beams and returns to her task. That is, stripping. Her bra lands on her shoe and that doesn’t look right so Yaz bends down to pick it up and then she’s holding the Doctor’s bra. She swallows thickly, the material burning her fingertips and quickly hangs it on a clothes hook. Alarmingly, the next thing she sees is the Doctor’s trousers on the floor, perfectly placed as if the woman had succumbed to her fever and melted, leaving only her inorganic remains. Of course, when she glances up, the Doctor is quite intact and sinking leisurely into icy water.

She releases as shaky breath as the water cools her. “Oo, that’s cold. That’s really cold. C’mere,” she says, holding out a dripping hand. Yaz shifts on her feet for a moment but eventually complies. She expects her to say something else but only takes her hand again and lets her head fall back against the bath. Her eyes slide shut. Yaz doesn’t think she’s ever seen her with her eyes voluntarily shut before - resting, peaceful.

It’s awkward at first. Yaz sits on the step by the bath, holding her hand while she dozes. She tries not to look, tries to keep her eyes above the water, but the more she eases the less intrusive it feels. It’s just a body, right? She looks magnified under the clear water. Her skin looks porcelain, textured only by scattered goosebumps. Her abdominals are tense from the chill and her nipples are hard. She looks beautiful.

Yaz jolts when she looks up to see dark hazel eyes on her. “Sorry,” she blurts and averts her eyes.

“You can do more than look,” the Doctor tempts. She sits up with a great sloshing and leans in close to Yaz. “You could get in. I could wash your hair.” Whatever this is, the bath isn’t helping. “You have amazing hair. I’ve never had hair like that,” she sighs wistfully and reaches out a wet hand to examine Yaz’s plait. The gentle tugging on her follicles sends a shiver over her scalp.

“It’s… cold,” Yaz reasons in a low whisper.

“I could warm it up. I’d do whatever you want.” There’s a heavy undertone to her words like they have nothing to do with the bath temperature. “Do you want me? To do anything?” She asks after a beat.

“I’m… how are you feeling?” Yaz raises her hand back up to her forehead. She’s cooler but still warm beneath Yaz’s palm. She sinks into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Good,” she breathes. “Really good,” and presses her thighs together.

Yaz doesn’t miss the motion. She swallows again and licks her suddenly dry lips. “D’y’wanna get out?”

When the Doctor nods, Yaz stands to fetch a towel.

The Doctor doesn’t let go of her hand and, in a quick movement, turns in the tub until she’s kneeling side-on, her face level with Yaz’s waist. Water drips from her exposed body. The ends of her hair stick to her neck and streams of water cascade down her chest. She looks like she’s waiting to get knighted - kneeling before her sovereign. Icy hands grab her hips and pull Yaz forward until the Doctor can rest her damp chin on Yaz’s belly.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” she repeats. Yaz feels stuck to the spot, utterly transfixed by the drowned woman before her. She grits her teeth when the Doctor pushes the hem on her shirt up and plants a cold kiss on her stomach. “Let me? Let me look after you,” she murmurs into her belly. Yaz gasps when her tongue dips into her belly button. “Please?”

Yaz can only stutter and give a mumbled “ _fuck_ ,” when the Doctor starts undoing the zip on her trousers. If she were to wake in a fit of sweats, cuffed to her bed in an asylum, it would be of little surprise. The Doctor’s hands are confident as they begin to slide Yaz’s trousers down her thighs. The cool air on her now exposed backside draws her back to reality but it only serves to intensify the need in her gut. Chilly fingertips dig into warm flesh as the Doctor grabs at her cheeks, pulling her closer as her kisses begin their descent.

Something that sounds like “you smell amazing,” is muttered when the Doctor nuzzles into her skin and kisses the crease of her hip. It sends a pang of heat to Yaz’s cheeks. Surely that should be embarrassing?

The Doctor holds her tight and kisses her clit and then she pushes her tongue between Yaz’s vulva and her eyes burn so darkly, so wanton, Yaz shakes. Her tongue is hot and wet and slides right through her. It makes the most perverse noise when it reaches the pool of heat between her legs and the Doctor groans when the taste hits her senses. Her licks are dogmatic, unceasing, hungry. Her eyes never leave Yaz’s as she works.

Yaz thinks she should say something, do something, but all she does is watches, her arms swaying at her sides. How could it be less than 24 hours ago she was being rejected again and now the Doctor is here, on her knees, with her tongue between Yaz’s legs, licking up her nectar like it’s her cure?

She groans when something starts to build within her. “We… we should move. A bedroom… or something,” she manages to sigh.

The Doctor responds by yanking her trousers down to her ankles and stepping out the bath, an avalanche of water coming with her and soaking Yaz’s, albeit already damp, clothes. She doesn’t stop there with her tenacity, instantly grabbing Yaz’s shirt and pulling it up over her head.

“Your body is incredible. Mine are always a bit random but yours… it’s like you were mapped out. Created to be astonishing.”

“Y’not getting religious on me are you?” Yaz sighs a laugh as the Doctor kisses her clavicle and reaches back to unclasp her bra.

“No. Still not human,” she pulls back and pushes Yaz’s breasts together, holding them in her palms and pushing her thumbs against her nipples. “Definitely interested in worshipping you though. C’mon.”

“Y’just gonna walk out there naked? What if R—“

“They won’t.”

“How d’you know?”

“Well, I don’t. I’m just going on statistics.”

“Thinking with your clit is what y’doing,” Yaz scolds but follows her through the bathroom door anyway.

“Say that again,” the Doctor suddenly spins, cornering Yaz up against the wall.

“What? Clit?”

Kissing the Doctor feels like breathing after being underwater for a very long time. She can faintly taste herself on soft lips. Her tongue is hot and when Yaz allows entry it pushes inside just like it had her cunt. She gasps when she feels her breasts push against her own and then, all at once, she’s being cupped and the Doctor is pushing a finger inside her. If someone had told her yesterday she’d be getting fingered in the TARDIS hallway right now she’d of slapped them silly.

“Still not a bedroom,” Yaz groans.

“Right. Sorry,” she whispers. There’s a door right next to them—was that there before?—which the Doctor swings open with her spare hand. It leads to a bedroom with white walls dotted with circles that look suspiciously like dinner plates.

“Oo, not been in this one for a while,” the Doctor muses as she removes her hand and ushers Yaz in.

“Bit dated,” Yaz concludes of the decor but it’s hardly of any worry when the Doctor starts kissing her scapular.

“It’s a time machine, how can it be dated? Can I finger you again?” She asks politely, wrapping her arms around Yaz’s bare waist and kissing her neck.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, mostly to herself, at the abruptness. “Y’can do whatever you want.” The words slip out before she can stop them. She’s too far gone to act as though she’s anything but putty in the Doctor’s desperate hands.

As soon as she’s on the bed—a big old thing, low to the floor and made of oak—the Doctor is on top of her, straddling her thigh and kissing her chest. When she moves up to kiss Yaz’s mouth, Yaz cups her breast and rubs a thumb over her pink nipple. The sound she makes is mewling and loud.

“Oo, that’s a lot,” she sighs and bites down on her lip. “That’s—that’s distracting.”

“That’s the idea,” Yaz smiles and sits up with the Doctor in her lap. “It’s meant to feel good. Does that feel good, Doctor?” She asks with a teasing lilt as she grazes both thumbs over her nipples. The Doctor’s face scrunches up and she flushes red and pushes her cunt down into Yaz’s thigh.

“Yes. Oh, Yaz,” she groans as Yaz teases her nipples, twisting them and rubbing them in circles.

She leans down a pulls one into her mouth, laving her tongue over the hardened flesh. The Doctor’s legs clamp around her thigh when she lightly bites down on the sensitive nipple. 

“Oh, that’s—you’re really good at that. I—I was… I was gonna make you come.”

Yaz chuckles at how quickly she’s turned the tables, turning the Doctor to putty under her quick fingers and tongue. “Y’were, weren’t you?” She smirks into her skin for a moment before pulling back to look at her.

Her eyes are shut tight as Yaz spreads the saliva across the pink skin. She plucks both nipples, pulling them and pinching and watching how the Doctor responds. She learns quickly what makes her gasp the loudest, utterly bewitched by her screwed up face and the way her hips rock against her thigh. She can feel the wetness covering her skin as the Doctor grinds against her. When she pinches particularly hard, the Doctor jolts forwards and her abdominals tense erratically. She lets out a low whine, stubborn and regretful as she reaches out to the sheets either side to balance herself.

“Did you just come?” Yaz asks, wide-eyed.

“I dunno,” she breaths, “I’ve—I think so.”

“Y’think so?”

“I mean, I didn’t know I could from just… that,” she breathes, eyes still tightly closed. “I haven’t experimented much with this body.”

“No wonder y’so horny,” Yaz teases.

She cracks open one eye to face Yaz, sheepish and flushed. “Are you annoyed?”

“Why in space would I be annoyed?” She asks with a bemused smile. The way the Doctor’s body twitches with little shocks as she absentmindedly plays with her nipples sends a warm shiver down her spine.

“It were gonna be about you. I was gonna show you”—she leans forward to kiss up Yaz’s neck and swipes the distracting hands away from her chest—“exactly how much you mean to me.”

“Oh yeah?” Yaz asks, voice feeble and high pitched. It’s a weak response but her mind is overrun with the feeling of warm breath just below her ear.

“Yeah. I was gonna kiss you breathless and fuck you with my tongue and—“

“Fuck, Doctor,” Yaz interrupts before she actually combusts. She looks up to see a wild smile pushing her down back against the bed. Pale hands roam across her chest but don’t linger in one spot - it’s torturous. Yaz wriggles beneath her as her stomach is scratched and squeezed and her breasts groped.

“I just wanna feel all of you. It’s like you’re made of silk… or catnip.”

“Those are… very different similes,” she gasps as the Doctor licks across her breast.

“Sorry, usually better with my prose. Your nipples are very distracting,” she says unabashedly and dips back down to pull one into her mouth.

“Oh god,” Yaz murmurs. The unfettered words shouldn’t have such a profound effect on her but she can feel herself clench around a deep emptiness. “If you keep talking like that…”

“Is it bad? I can be quiet if you prefer,” the Doctor says in earnest, pulling back to search Yaz’s eyes for a clue.

“Y’know I don’t like it when you go quiet,” she smiles. “Besides, not sure you could if you tried.”

“That’s not true - I’d do anything for you, Yaz,” she says introspectively. Yaz barely has a second to comprehend what an odd thing that is to say, coming from her, before fingers are gliding over her wet folds.

“You’re really wet,” she observes heavily. “Human biology is so brilliant. All of this”—she runs the flats of her fingertips right through her—“from mere anticipation. You’re so reactive… so adaptive… I bet you could take three of my fingers inside you without much of a stretch you’re so ready.”

Yaz can only give a guttural groan at the words as she rocks her hips forwards in encouragement - it’s all the inspiration the Doctor needs to push two fingers into her. They both moan in unison at the sensation and, the Doctor was right, two fingers fit without resistance.

“Oh Yaz, you feel amazing… I can feel you twitching,” she groans and presses her cheek to Yaz’s belly. She sounds like she might cry. Yaz isn’t sure where she gets off being so enthralled, she’s not even the one getting fucked. The fingers twist and curl inside her, feeling every bit of her insides. It’s slow, painfully slow, and the Doctor just rests her face on her stomach like she’s about to take a nap, playing with her cunt like it’s just there to keep her fingers occupied.

“Faster,” Yaz gasps when the lazy, exploratory fingers start feeling like they’re more for the Doctor’s benefit than hers.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She quickly hops up on an elbow and watches Yaz’s face intently as she draws out to quickly push back in. Yaz watches her right back for as long as she can - she looks dazed and sedated, like touching Yaz is slowly tranquillising the wild fever that animalised her.

She starts a punishing pace and the wet sounds of her hand against Yaz make her squirm. She’d usually be embarrassed about that but she can’t even think anymore. The Doctor looks down when she moves to push her thumb against Yaz’s clit and she’s vaguely aware of a passing sense of insecurity when the Doctor’s eyes lock onto her so intently.

“Look at that…” The Doctor murmurs, mostly to herself. Yaz braces herself for an anatomical, clinical description of her fingers sinking into her. She can hear it now: _I can see your walls clenching. I can see you trying to pull me inside._ But the reality is far worse as the Doctor sighs and says, “you’re beautiful.”

Yaz gasps and her cunt flutters, the Doctor’s words knocking her clean off balance. “Oh, god…” She groans and her abdominals tense.

The Doctor looks up to watch—eyes wide and unblinking—having caught on to the effects her words have. “You look amazing, Yaz. You _feel_ amazing. Please, Yaz—You’re so close. I can feel how close you are. Please let me feel you come,” she begs and Yaz groans. How is she the one begging?

She comes with a pathetic noise she’s sure will haunt her. But the Doctor doesn’t stop - just slows her hand until she’s eventually back to almost imperceptible movements while Yaz pants. The thing that draws her from bliss is the Doctor pressing her cunt up against Yaz’s knee. It’s wet and warm and presses against the bone.

But then she’s getting off and settling herself between Yaz’s thighs. Yaz doesn’t miss her pressing her thighs together as she does so.

“Let me—Oh!” Yaz’s offer gets rudely interrupted when the Doctor swiftly pushes two knees up and apart. Yaz has never been spread like this before and the mere position is reigniting the mildly extinguished fire deep in her gut. She huffs again when her hips are dragged forward and the Doctor shoves a pillow under her hips. “You know what y’doing…” She observes dazedly.

“I’m very old,” she responds.

“Sexy,” Yaz pokes but the Doctor ignores her entirely - focusing instead on licking up the back of her thigh. She squeaks when a flash of warm pain radiates from where the Doctor sinks her teeth into soft skin, “Oi!”

“Not into biting? Sorry,” she moves up with a grin to kiss her lips in apology. It’s sloppy and sweet and Yaz takes her bottom lip between her teeth to make a point.

“Biting’s fine - bit of warning next time,” she says when she lets the lip go.

“Where’s the fun in that? All about the element of surprise.” She wiggles her hips as she lays between Yaz’s legs—upper body bracketed by her thighs—Yaz can feel her pubic hair against her clit and she feels silly with her knees up by her ears. “This makes me miss my cock a little bit.”

Yaz swallows thickly. “Y’know you could… get a fake one.” Is she really asking to be fucked with a strap on right now?

“Yeah but then I wouldn’t be able to feel you clench around me when you came.”

Yaz takes some gentle inhales through her nose while she tries to remember how to breathe. “That’s true,” she squeaks.

“Anyway, where was I…” She begins peppering light kisses down her front—clearly ready to get back to it—and settles between her thighs on her elbows.

She feels a flat tongue up against her labia, not at her centre, gliding up the smooth skin and then shifting to the other side. Yaz bites her tongue. It’s wet and warm and the sensations make her squirm as she holds her breath. The Doctor pulls back to lap, long, slow lines right over her entrance to her clit. She does this once, twice, three times… Getting hungrier with each lick. On the fourth, she moves lower, eagerly pushing on the backs of Yaz’s thighs so her spine curves and her hips tilt back further.

“ _Oh, fuck!_ ” Yaz exclaims as the Doctor’s hot tongue slides over her ass. She should protest against this… right? She should say… something. A scold for her presumption, a reprimand for her abruptness. It’s rude, after all, to do… _that_. All that escapes is a staggered breath as her throat contracts. This isn’t something she’s really considered before, being touched so unabashedly, so primally, so… _there_. She’s embarrassed at first—feels it hot on her cheeks when she glances down to see herself so exposed to the open room and watchful eyes and a zealous tongue—but then she thinks: _I’m having sex with an alien_. How could she grapple with such silly human concepts of womanhood and promiscuity when the alien between her thighs is driving her towards a cliff’s edge with her feverous tongue?

It probes and probes and a nose presses into her folds and hands grip tighter on her legs. She lets goin an instant the idea this isn’t something she’s into when her cunt flutters with every warm flit.

When the doctor snakes a hand around her thigh to massage her clit with the pad of her thumb, Yaz comes again. Without delay, there’re fingers inside her—she’s vaguely aware of a passing thought the Doctor simply wants to feel her come—and the mouth moves to suck on her clit. Her orgasm hasn’t even ended before a new wave of pleasure drowns her. 

Jolts of electricity pass through her, flickering and dying, before she eventually collapses, legs landing heavily on the mattress. She has to push the Doctor’s forehead away when words fail her and she doesn’t stop tasting her. She lays there, panting, as the Doctor crawls up her body, leaving a path of sticky kisses in her wake; her hip, her ribs, her nipple.

“Was that good?” She asks when she reaches her neck, her breath is ticklish on her skin.

“Nah,” Yaz breathes, eyes fluttering with exhaustion. The Doctor looks at her puppyish yet determined for a moment before Yaz chuckles and she breaks into a beaming smile.

“Can try again if you like,” she teases. “I could watch you come for a whole Zaralathon rotation.”

Yaz hums as the Doctor kisses her neck, the first etchings of fatigue creeping in about her face. “And how long is a day on Zaralathon?”

The Doctor pulls away with a wicked smile. “In Earth time? About six billion years.”

Yaz chuckles, deep and fulfilled and it rocks the Doctor’s body above her. There’re things she could say— _you’re ridiculous, you’re amazing, you’re still not yourself, I love you_ —but she replies with a kiss. A slow, tentative one. “Y’wanna please me, Doctor?” She whispers against her open mouth.

“All the time,” she says. Yaz tries not to let that choke her - she searches her expression for the lie but is met only with earnestness.

She licks her lips. “Spread your legs.”

A creeping grin slides across her face as she sits up to straddle Yaz’s thighs. She stands on her knees and juts her pelvis forward, an offering, a gift. It says: _take me, do with me what you wish._

Yaz looks down the valley of her chest, up to the Doctor’s pale hips where her fingers lie, to the blonde curls, to her shifting ribs. Her nipples still look tender from her earlier treatment and Yaz has half a mind to pinch them until she comes again.

“What do you like?” Yaz asks as she moves her hand from her hip to rest a palm over her pubic hair.

“Do whatever you want,” she sighs. Her hips wriggle under Yaz’s stationary hand, encouraging movement.

“I asked you a question.” It’s a selfish request really - Yaz isn’t sure where to start. How to compete with lives and lives worth of experience? But then, she did already make her come and the firm tone seems to bring about a flush on her cheeks.

“Um. I like…Or, I would like it if-if you’d put your fingers inside me.”

Yaz’s breath catches in her throat. The words intoxicate her like shooting desire straight from the bottle. She twists her hand and lets her fingers run through her wet heat. It’s slow, teasing, and both their breathing is getting heavier and heavier. She spreads the wetness around in teasing circles.

“What else?”

“I’d like”—Yaz pushes her fingers inside just as she starts to speak and watches the words dissolve into the air like gold flickers of artron energy—“Ohh… I’d-I’d like it if you touched my nipples again.”

Yaz doesn’t hesitate to rise from the mattress and scoot back on the bed until her back is against the headboard and the Doctor is sat firmly in her lap. She’s tight around Yaz’s two fingers so she stills for a moment to allow her to accommodate them.

“You okay?”

“I’m—Yeah.”

Blunt nails scratch against the pale skin of her back when Yaz pulls her forward to lick her nipple. It hardens almost instantly and Yaz feels her twitch when she flicks it with the tip of her tongue. She tastes like sweat and skin and bathwater.

After a few moments of gentle teasing and sucking and scraping her teeth over hard flesh, the Doctor begins to rock her hips against Yaz’s hand. The wet sounds that permeate are perverse when she begins to fuck into her. She looks down, just as the Doctor did, to watch her hand sink between her thighs. The heel of her hand rubs against her clit and she’s hit once again with the fear she may be dreaming - how could it be not long ago she was being sent away un-kissed?

The Doctor moans and it sounds somewhat frustrated so Yaz curls her fingers. She fucks her faster and puts her mouth back on her. Her skin is milky and soft - damageable. Yaz can’t resist biting the flesh at the side of her breast and sucking until she tastes metal. She can feel the Doctor clench when the pain morphs into something more and she licks across the stark red patch. She does this three more times, dotting marks across her chest like cartoon lipstick stains, every one causing the Doctor’s breathing to become ever the more ragged.

“Oh Yaz, Yaz, Yaz…” She breathes and a hand shoots out to grasp her hair for dear life as Yaz pinches a nipple between her teeth and pulls it gently.

“Are you gonna come for me, Doctor?”

Her reply comes in the form of a harsh grip around her braid and her hips bucking frantically against her hand. She rides her orgasm for an exceedingly long time, all the while calling Yaz’s name like a wish upon a star.

When she stills, she peels Yaz’s smushed face from against her chest. “Sorry,” she pants, “that were… you’re very…”

“Cat got your tongue? Finally?”

She sighs a laugh and scoots backwards to pull Yaz’s hips down the bed. Yaz is just about to protest getting fucked again—how the hell did she end up here?—when the Doctor flops down on top of her and tucks her head under Yaz’s chin. Cuddling. That’s new.

Yaz looks across the empty expanse of the bed beside them - she could choose to lay on any of it over Yaz but she doesn’t. She drapes herself atop her like an invaluable throw. It’s a microscopic adaption of all of space-time: of all the places the Doctor could be—a whole universe of possibility—she’s with Yaz.

“Y’hearts still beating fast,” she murmurs as she traces circular patterns over Yaz’s breast. Is she writing something?

“It does that a lot around you,” Yaz smiles, suddenly nervous. You don’t fear rejection when it’s inevitable. What is it about hope that’s so deadly?

“I like it,” she says simply.

* * *

Yaz wakes a good few hours later—she supposes from her well-rested state and the pillow line on her wrist—to the Doctor’s arms still wrapped tight around her waist. They’re under the covers now and her breasts push into Yaz’s back. As the last dregs of sleep leave her, she turns to face her.

“Hi,” she greets her sleepy expression. Her hair is ruffled and curly about her pillow.

“Hi,” she smiles back. Yaz wants to kiss her but is suddenly unsure if she’s allowed. She opts instead for a palm against her forehead.

“Your fever’s gone,” she observes. She’s no longer flushed - the only evidence of yesterday on her are the angry blots across her chest from Yaz’s eager teeth.

“Yeah. Right as rain, me. Knew I would be,” she smiles lazily. Her voice sounds different from last night. Hoarse from sleep, perhaps, but more like her usual self. Cheery - slightly empty. Yaz feels an uncomfortable winding in her gut when she sees the edges of the mask being pulled down. She tucks her hand under her pillow to stop herself from touching her.

“Y’gonna tell me what happened to you yesterday?” She starts tentatively, gradually building confidence as the fear ramps up. “Cause if this was all just some drug-induced shag and you didn’t—”

“It were what you said to me,” she interrupts.

“No - you were acting proper different. I know I shouldn’t have—”

“Yaz. What you said… it triggered something in my head,” she pauses and looks up, struggling to articulate herself with her hands tucked below the covers. “It’s meant to be apart of Timelord unification rituals, a sort of bioengineered honeymoon phase for our version of newlyweds. But I guess I panicked or, one of my brains did, and sent me into hormonal overdrive.” When her eyes settle back on Yaz, she looks genuinely embarrassed.

“You’ve got more than one brain?” Is the first question that comes to mind.

“I’ve got three—I think. I’ve not checked this time around. I could be one short—that would explain a lot of things.” Her rambling washes over Yaz as she sorts through all this new information. She wasn’t sick or drugged or delusional she was… emotional? Or just horny?

“So, everything you said…?” Yaz hates how meek she sounds as her question drifts. She can’t quite bring herself to ask it boldly: _did you mean it when you said I was brilliant? That you’d never get sick of me?_

“Very embarrassingly meant every word,” she scrunches her face up a bit but smiles through her embarrassment.

Yaz’s heart blooms crimson flowers in her chest - she feels it thud against its cage. “But you’re back to normal now?” She asks, not trusting what’s before her.

“Not all the way. Probably gonna be really clingy for about three more days,” she says and her fingers scratch at Yaz’s lower-back.

“Only three days? Pretty short honeymoon for a Timelord.” Their voices are still hushed, buried beneath the covers and doused in morning quiet. She’s not quite sure she’s ready for it to end.

“Hijacker got what it wanted,” she shrugs. Her eyes are on Yaz’s mouth and she cups her chin and thumbs her bottom lip

“What’s that?”

“Me to feel safe… doin’ this.”

She guides Yaz forward until she can capture her in a kiss, her soft mouth pressing against Yaz’s and a tentative tongue caressing her lip. All that worry washes away when she realises this is just the beginning. It’s slow and loving: a proper first kiss - gentle, sweet, nervous, honest. Yaz would have to remember first kisses are always better the third time around.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaa thank u so much mia - i hope you like it! this was so much fun to write!!
> 
> feedback appreciated as always🧡


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